


it would be tyranny's disease, to trust no friends

by Stacicity



Series: Jonah Fics [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A complete disregard for genuine Georgian medical practices, Anal Sex, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Pegging, Regency letter-writing, Sickfic, Trans Jonah Magnus, Trans Jonathan Fanshawe, Vaginal Sex, but all sex takes place when he's better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24240244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stacicity/pseuds/Stacicity
Summary: Jonah comes down with a fever in 1819; Barnabas and Jonathan pool their resources, and set to looking after him properly.
Relationships: Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus, Barnabas Bennett/Jonathan Fanshawe, Barnabas Bennett/Jonathan Fanshawe/Jonah Magnus, Jonathan Fanshawe/Jonah Magnus
Series: Jonah Fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759540
Comments: 34
Kudos: 98
Collections: Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus





	it would be tyranny's disease, to trust no friends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spiraldistortion (bisexualthorin)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualthorin/gifts).



> This fic dedicated to Cat who is a hero, a gentleman and a scholar, and whom I adore. He wanted Jonah/Jonathan/Barnabas and I have done my best with it. 
> 
> Another instalment in "Elsie writes about Regency bastards instead of continuing her actual plot fic" but I had _so_ much fun with this. Not to mention a lot of feelings about Barnabas Bennett.
> 
> Simon Fairchild is herein referred to as Emiliano Miniati in keeping with the canon I set up for myself in [Ozymandias](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23925679) \- anyone who's reading this as part of the Jonah Magnus collection it's in I am _sorry_ I _know_ it would be easier if I called him Giovanni, I can only apologise.

It starts with a cough. It’s small, at first, just a rattling, hitching catch in Jonah’s throat, something he dismisses and ignores as an after-effect of rough treatment the night before (and to be fair to him, it’s as good an excuse as any). The first sneeze is in bed, the frail structure of Jonah’s body shaken as he curls into a ball and blinks through suddenly-red eyes, Barnabas startled and then amused at the disgruntled look on his face. 

“Feeling a bit under the weather?” he asks softly, and Jonah scoffs. 

“Nonsense. I’m fine.” 

Jonah is _always_ fine, because he never allows himself to be otherwise. Even though each one of them have seen him in various states of what could be called weakness (kneeling, sobbing with overstimulation, pleading) it is always within Jonah’s control, always within his gift to stop or withdraw. It is deeply strange to see him so thoroughly thrown outside of his own iron grip. Barnabas gathers him close and schools his features into neutrality because he rather thinks that if he laughs at Jonah now he’ll find himself out in the cold. 

Never mind that this is _his_ house. Jonah would have no qualms about throwing him out of it. 

The cough gets worse, though it takes a while for anybody to notice, because Jonah is very careful about leaving the room before a fit overtakes him, sipping at water or wine or whatever comes to hand, waving off any concerns about the new fatigue in his face. He has a handkerchief tucked within his sleeve and Barnabas is sure that at least once he sees him pinching his cheeks to put some colour into them, hands clamped tight against his knees when he sits so they can’t possibly shake. 

The next time they are all gathered at Barnabas’ house Robert is holding court on the nature of humanity. Emiliano is needling him, asking pointedly obtuse or flippant questions, and Robert is taking him absolutely at face-value, his hands waving wildly as he becomes more passionate. Mordechai is smoking by the window and Barnabas is sitting close by to Robert, Jonah leaning against his side, listening to Jonathan opine on politics of one sort or another. 

Not that Barnabas cares much for politics. But Jonathan has a soothing cadence to his voice and Jonah listens intently whenever he is speaking, so Barnabas is content to start the conversation and settle back into quiet to watch it play out. He catches the upwards inflection of a question in Jonathan’s tone, though not the words of the question itself, and glances down at Jonah in expectation of answer only to be met with silence. 

“Jonah?” Barnabas asks softly, lifting a shoulder gently and then twisting so he can take Jonah’s face in his hands, lifting it a little. “Oh- oh, I think he’s asleep.” 

“Too much wine?” Emiliano asks, leaning over to inspect him, and Barnabas shakes his head. 

“No, he’s scarcely touched a drop- _Christ_ , he feels warm.” Sure enough, Jonah’s skin is flushed under his hand, warm and clammy, and Barnabas grimaces. “Feverish, I think. Dr Fanshawe-”

“Yes, yes.” Jonathan sighs, slipping his glasses off. “Come, let’s get him to bed. Can you carry him?” 

“I think so.” There’s not _all_ that much height between them but Jonah is fine-boned and delicate and it’s not too much effort to lift him up into his arms and cradle him close. Barnabas can feel Mordechai’s eyes on the back of his neck and ignores them; he doesn’t want to see what Mordechai thinks of this, thinks of seeing _Jonah_ like this. He is sure that Jonah would be beyond mortified to be capitulating to illness in such company and he finds himself curling over him a little, shifting his arm to hide Jonah’s face against his chest, to preserve what little of his dignity he can. “My room is up the stairs,” he tells Jonathan who nods and follows him. 

He can hear laughter behind him - largely Emiliano’s, he’s clearly made some manner of dry comment to Robert, and Barnabas can pick out Mordechai’s rumbling chuckle beneath - but he doesn’t look back until he’s well away, safe within his chambers, laying Jonah out onto his bed as carefully as possible.

Now that he’s looking he can see the flush of fever in Jonah’s cheeks, the sheen of sweat across his forehead sticking some of his curls there. Barnabas smoothes them back, reaching down to fuss with the buttons of his waistcoat but finding his hands swiftly swatted aside by Jonathan’s. 

“If you don’t mind, Mr Bennett?” Jonathan says pointedly and Barnabas opens his mouth, closes it again, looks towards the frail body in his bed and then turns away. 

“I- of course. I’ll be outside,” he replies, leaves Jonathan to his examinations and waits outside with his hands folded behind his back, listening to the sound of conviviality beneath him. At least Emiliano can always be trusted to keep conversation going in spite of this sudden dip in the mood of the evening. 

Jonathan takes his time about his examinations. Barnabas knows that he does all things intensely, carefully, has seen the focus in his eyes where Jonah is concerned. He has also seen how Jonathan fits his hand delicately over Jonah’s wrist, fingers placed precisely where the bones are most fragile, the way Jonah’s breath quickens in that silent moment of balance, only Jonathan’s whims and the flex of his fingers keeping his wrist from being snapped entirely. Barnabas does not doubt that the two are fond of one another, nor does he begrudge them that - he couldn’t begrudge Jonah anything - but he is startled to find for the first time that he does not entirely trust Dr Fanshawe alone with Jonah when he is in a state of vulnerability. 

So, he waits. Teeters near the door of his own bedroom and reassures himself that Jonathan must have Jonah’s best interests at heart given how tenderly he watches him, how he reaches out to touch him even whilst apparently shying away from contact with anyone else. Barnabas, after all, does the same thing. Surely they are not so different.

When the door opens again Jonathan emerges looking reasonably calm, still, blinking at Barnabas as if he’d quite forgotten he was there. 

“As I suspected - pneumonia, I think, likely a cold he’s overworked into a fever.”

“As you suspected?” Barnabas probes lightly, and Jonathan snorts. 

“Come now. He’s been carrying that cough around for a few weeks, it was only a matter of time.”

“You didn’t- did you not say anything to him?” 

“No more or less than you did, Mr Bennett.” There’s a glint in Jonathan’s eyes, a sharpness, and Barnabas finds himself prickling onto the defensive, hands white-knuckled at the small of his back. 

“I’m no doctor.” 

“No, sir, you are not,” Jonathan agrees coolly. “But you likely came to the same conclusion I did - namely, that Jonah is wholly unlikely to listen to anybody’s concerns about his health until his legs collapse beneath him. Better for him to learn this lesson now, and in this reasonably mild fashion, than be forced to learn it later under less gentle circumstances.” 

“Ah. An experiment, then.” Barnabas can hear the bitterness in his tone, dredged from somewhere in his throat, and wonders precisely where it is that his feelings are cresting from. He doesn’t bear Jonathan any particular ill-will - much as he might recognise that he doesn’t know him, not _really_ \- but he feels fractious and anxious, liable to lash out. Jonathan gives him a long, appraising look, and Barnabas feels vivisected under it, feels like Jonathan is peeling back skin and muscle and bone to weigh his organs and find them wanting. 

No, Jonathan and Jonah are not quite so different. 

“Is it my professionalism that you’ve chosen to cast aspersions on, Mr Bennett?” Jonathan asks after a moment, tone icy but still soft, “or just my fondness for Jonah?”

“I-”

“Because I assure you that I hold both in the _highest_ regard. I’m well aware of your fondness for him - indeed, one could hardly fail to be given how you fawn over him - but whatever privileged position he holds within your heart does not give you leave to belittle my craft, nor the authenticity of my feelings.” 

Barnabas flinches back, stung, and Jonathan’s expression scarcely flickers as he adjusts his cuffs and offers Barnabas a stiff little nod. “I’ve left a tisane and a liniment on the bedside table that you can give him, and I’ll call back on him in a couple of days. Keep him comfortable, make sure he drinks water, light foods if he’s up to them - broths and so forth - and I’ll make a judgement as to any further action necessary.”

He turns to leave and Barnabas swallows hard, pride thoroughly bruised by the encounter. Jonathan wields his words as sharply and delicately as his scalpel, it seems, and Barnabas wants to follow him, to press his fingers against the edges of the wound he’s inflicted between them, to see if he can stitch it together again, but-

Well, he has never been any good at fixing things. 

* * * 

Jonah’s skin is far too warm, but he is shivering. Barnabas has cradled him in the softest sheets he can, an eiderdown laid over it, and he sits ready with cool, damp rags to lay over Jonah’s fevered brow. The bindings around his chest had seemed to be doing his coughs no favours so Barnabas had tried to remove them only to find Jonah’s fingers around his wrist, vicelike and painful - such strength there, even in the grip of a fever, even when he looks so, so frail. 

“Jonah,” he’d whispered, pressing his mouth against those white knuckles and tasting the sour tang of sickness. “Jonah, it’s only me.” 

All the same, it had taken some convincing, and a compromise; Jonah is unbound, but he is clothed in one of Barnabas’ shirts, loose enough so as not to obstruct his lungs, enough to cover him from unexpected visitors. Emiliano and Robert have both called by, Robert with an earnest sort of concern, Emiliano with a strange and unfamiliar look in his eyes. It had occurred to Barnabas that he’d never seen Emiliano anxious before. He’d needled and teased Barnabas as ever, made mockery of his new status as a nursemaid, but he’d also laid a hand against his elbow before he took his leave and murmured _be well_ with more genuine feeling than Barnabas thought he’d ever seen from him. 

Barnabas had felt a little like he was floating for the rest of the day - put it down to the comfort of healthy company - and when he’d retired to bed that night (the guest room, just unfamiliar enough to be uncomfortable) he’d felt like he was sinking into the mattress, calm and cradled in the hands of something far larger than himself. 

* * * 

Because Barnabas was asleep, he didn’t see Mordechai. Mordechai who appeared in the corner of Jonah's bedroom and walked towards the bed with near-silent steps, who felt Jonah’s cheek with the backs of his fingers, thumbed one of his eyes roughly open to see his pupils. Jonah stirred under his hand, nose crinkled with distaste and confusion, and Mordechai set his free hand against his shoulder to hold him still. 

“Mordechai?” Jonah rasped, voice weak and crackling, cringing in on himself with a sudden round of lurching coughs from his chest. Mordechai shook his head, shushed him, kept up his strange examination for a while longer before giving Jonah’s cheek a little pat and stepping back. 

“You’ll live. Rest, now.” 

“Mordechai-” Jonah sighed, the word tugged from him like a plea, like a prayer, and Mordechai shook his head again, already fading into the chill and briny air. The cold lasted only for half as long as it normally did, no frost against the windows, no coils of mist around the duvet where it brushed the floor. Jonah held his eyes open for long enough to watch the walls behind Mordechai become visible, and pressed his face back against the pillow, slipping back to sleep. 

* * * 

LONDON, ENGLAND, 13 May 1819

J. FANSHAWE, MD

_Dr Fanshawe:_

I have little doubt that my words are amongst the last you’ll be keen to hear given the humour of our last interaction. I hope you will forgive my absence at your last few visits to our mutual acquaintance, and my reticence in doing more than opening the door for you; I thought it best to leave you be, largely for fear of distracting you, or else augmenting the insult I have already paid you. I must also beg your pardon for the clumsiness of this letter; I am not well-accustomed to apologies, and though I hope my pride is not so pronounced as to preclude the apology entirely, I fear it will not be half so elegant as that which you deserve. Nonetheless, I shall attempt it.

I’m sure I need hardly to tell you that the rift between us is caused entirely by my own hot temper; I have ever been prey to foolish impulses, and whilst I had often hoped that as adolescence became adulthood I would grow above such pettiness, unfortunately it still rears its head from time to time. Suffice it to say that I was distressed enough by Jonah’s state to allow anxiety to overtake me, and I exerted it upon you most foolishly, and in a manner you did not at all deserve. 

I have no excuse for my own poor self-control bar the high spirits that so often accompany Robert’s gatherings. I quite understand if you do not wish to see me and, should you wish to call on Jonah again, I will do my utmost to accommodate your wishes in whatever fashion I can. In the interim, I can only extend my most heartfelt of apologies, and the hope that my folly has not put pay to any hope of friendship between us, as your opinion is one that I hold in the highest of regards. 

I remain, sir, your most humble servant,

Barnabas Bennett

* * * 

When Jonah returns to some semblance of lucidity he is frantic and twitchy, kicking the sheets off only to bundle himself back into them again, grappling with the bed as if it were quicksand, muttering to himself things that Barnabas only half-understands. 

“I must- I- my Institute, Barnabas, the _work_ -”

“Jonah, you cannot travel in this state,” Barnabas sighs, weary of this discussion as it is the third time that they’ve had it in so many hours. He hasn’t slept well past the night after Emiliano’s visit, kept awake listening to Jonah’s rattling, heaving coughs, watching the walls and waiting for the fever to break. “All you will accomplish is making yourself more ill and thereby delaying your endeavours further, Jonah, _please_.”

It is hard to find a suitable compromise with Jonah because compromise really isn’t his natural inclination; he will pull what strings he can, coax and coerce and, yes, threaten sometimes, to achieve precisely the result that he wants. Even at the cost of his own strength, his own health, and Barnabas’ apparently unwavering fortitude when it comes to taking care of him. Jonah stares at him with flinty eyes and Barnabas digs deep to find resolve, clasps his hands behind his back so they won’t tremble and wonders how it is that a flat gaze from Jonah can so thoroughly unravel him to his very core. If it weren’t for the fact that Jonah’s legs shake on the smallest of journeys Barnabas would worry about him climbing out of the window in the night but he is still weak, still sick, still far too warm and coughing so hard that Barnabas fears he will shake himself apart entirely. He listens for the catch of the window in the night, regardless. 

After a day or so of rehashing the same argument they do reach a compromise of sorts. Barnabas sends for copies of the latest statements from Edinburgh and sits on the bed with Jonah’s head in his lap, reading about untold horrors. They’re enough to unsettle him (though quite obviously the products of other fevered minds), but it seems to soothe Jonah to hear them, to bring some colour back to his cheeks and to stop him thrashing quite so much in his sleep. Barnabas waits until his breathing settles and then extricates himself to find more cool rags for his forehead, to sit with his hand in Jonah’s and wait for him to wake again, listening to half-mumbled phrases that make no sense to him at all. 

* * * 

Dr Fanshawe pops in, sets a hand at Jonah’s ribs to feel his lungs expanding, listens at his chest and gives his opinions. This time Barnabas stays to watch his examination and is if not welcome, at least tolerated. Jonah watches Jonathan with half-lidded eyes, tilts his head obligingly, breathes in, breathes out. He _trusts_ him. Barnabas has seen Jonah unguarded, of course, but he normally has at least one layer of pretence or another papered over himself. Even when it is just the two of them there is something, be it an air of caprice and the affectation of mischief, or a more melancholy and scholarly aspect, Jonah is rarely just _Jonah_. But Barnabas cannot see any pretence in the way he looks at Jonathan. 

Barnabas ducks away to give them some privacy when Jonathan has concluded that Jonah’s condition seems to be improving, pours himself a drink and settles himself in an armchair, listening to the soft catch of the bedroom door opening, closing, the beat of steady feet on the stairs. 

“On the mend, I think,” Jonathan remarks and Barnabas nods, glances at his watch with a little twist of his lips. 

“I’m sorry to have kept you working so late. It’s well past your hours, I’m sure.” 

“Sickness does not keep to regular hours, Mr Bennett,” Jonathan replies dryly, curls a hand over the back of the sofa and holds his gaze until Barnabas looks away again. Barnabas can hear him sigh, the creak of his carpeted floor as he rounds the sofa and then sits down. “I received your letter.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yes. I appreciate the sentiment.” Jonathan folds his hands neatly in his lap. “I know your actions were borne out of anxiety and high passion rather than any intent to insult me.” 

Barnabas nods, numb, rubs his thumb around the edge of his glass. “It’s no excuse. And I hope that you know I wasn’t acting out of any sort of - Lord, I don’t know, _jealousy_ or some such. I have no claim on him, I don’t think anyone does.” 

Jonathan hums, somewhere between amusement and resignation, and tilts his head back to look at the ceiling. The light glints off his spectacles and the straight line of his nose and Barnabas dares to lift his head, trying to pull himself past feeling like a recalcitrant schoolboy into some sort of adult line of thinking. For God’s sake, he ought to be _past_ this, but there is something in Jonathan’s demeanour that makes him feel unbalanced. 

“Jonah has no more to fear from me than he does from you,” Jonathan says finally. “He and I understand one another, as much as anyone can understand a man like Jonah. He’s well aware of the impulses I harbour towards him, and if he were displeased by them, I shouldn’t think he’d allow me anywhere near as close as he does. If you cannot trust me, you might at least trust him.” 

“Do _you_ trust him?” Barnabas asks, almost laughing at it. Jonathan tilts his head, looking back somewhere just to the left of Barnabas’ eyes. 

“As I trust the sun, Mr Bennett, to shine on after its own fashion and have us all the better for it.” 

Barnabas opens his mouth and then closes it again, closes his eyes as well and lets darkness settle there. It’s an apt simile. Jonah is the sun around which they all gravitate, and Barnabas is sure that one day, one of them will end up burned for it. But he can no more change his orbit now than he could change his own face. He is broken out of his thoughts by the touch of a cool, dry hand against his wrist, Jonathan’s expression a little softer. 

“You’ve not been sleeping.” 

“Not much, no.”

“It’s only a fever, Barnabas. Before long he’ll be out of bed and driving us all mad once more, and you’ll be praying for the peace.” Barnabas laughs despite himself, shaking his head a little, and Jonathan stands to set a hand against his shoulder just for a moment, one man to another. “I’ll leave you something to help you sleep. Breathe easy, if you can. It won’t be long now.” 

* * * 

Jonah’s fever breaks a day later, and his sleep is easier. The next day he sits up in bed and lets Barnabas bring him plum cakes with caraway, a light broth, whatsoever else he desires to eat or drink until the colour comes back to his cheeks. The next afternoon finds him sitting up and reading his letters himself, catching up on the news and the gossip he has missed, haranguing Barnabas for details and rolling his eyes when Barnabas tells him that he is hardly up to date with the goings-on of the world himself. 

“Then _find out_ for me, won’t you? Ask Emiliano or Robert or the rest of them, they’ll have their ears to the ground.” 

“It was only a few days,” Barnabas replies, bemused, and Jonah scoffs. 

“A few days is an eternity in the eyes of society, you know that as well as I, don’t be _foolish_.” 

“I- alright. _Alright_ , Jonah, whatever you like.” Barnabas concedes the argument rather than have Jonah work himself up into a fury, writes to Robert in the morning post, and by three he has an account of the movements of society that Jonah reads with every evidence of satisfaction. Another letter for Jonah comes in the evening post and Barnabas sits on the end of the bed with his book, watching out of the corner of his eye as Jonah reads it with a raised eyebrow, a strange look on his face. 

“You didn’t tell me you’d quarrelled with Jonathan,” he says finally and Barnabas frowns, feels unease prickle under his skin. 

“I hardly thought it worth mentioning. I thought the matter resolved,” he says after a pause, eyes still on his book. 

“Oh - resolved, yes, assuredly. He doesn’t seem to be cross with you. What was the point of contention?” 

“Jonah-”

“Barnabas.” 

Barnabas sighs, feels the shift of the mattress beneath him as Jonah leans forward to catch his hand, to draw him down until his head is pillowed in his lap. He leaves his book at the end of the bed and comes easily, closes his eyes when Jonah’s fingers drag through his hair, settling at his temples. Barnabas feels answers pull at his throat but without the right words with which to deliver them, wonders at how he is so keen to tell Jonah things he can scarcely tell himself. “Nothing of any import,” he murmurs into the eiderdown, and Jonah gives a little hum, encouraging and expectant.

It’s a half-answer, it won’t satisfy Jonah for long, but that’s alright; Barnabas just wants to delay the conversation until he feels more secure in his own thoughts. “You know I am quarrelsome, sometimes,” he adds quietly, and Jonah sighs. “I am- I am not so secure in the company of my fellow man as I might hope to be.” 

“I know.” And he does know, Barnabas has no doubt about that. “Jonathan says he’ll call by in a few days. I think you two ought to become better acquainted.” 

Barnabas shifts a little, squinting up at Jonah to catch the smile twitching at his lips, the softness in his eyes. “Scarcely a step from death’s door and you’re already thinking about your next fuck?” 

“ _If_ I were scarcely a step from death’s door, I can hardly think of a way I’d rather go,” Jonah replies, coaxes Barnabas up to straddle his lap and lets him press his face into the crook of his neck, breathing in soap and clean skin, a welcome relief from the bitterness of sweat and illness. “And don’t think you can distract me with vulgarity. I think you two will get along famously, if you let yourself. Jonathan is-” he hesitates, briefly, and Barnabas smiles against his shoulder. 

“He’s like you.”

There’s a tension in Jonah’s frame for a moment but it melts away a second later, and Barnabas feels the press of warm lips to the top of his head. 

“Yes. He’s like me.” 

* * * 

Jonathan calls in the evening a couple of nights later with his doctor’s bag in hand. Jonah is up and dressed in the living room reading the evening papers, his eyes once again sharp and focused, the bags beneath them melted back into smoothness. 

“You look well,” Jonathan says warmly and Jonah chuckles, stands from the sofa to take Jonathan’s hand. 

“Between your medicine and Barnabas’ care, I had no other option,” he replies simply. “I take it you wish to perform an examination regardless?” 

“Naturally.” 

“Well, then, come along.” 

“Will Mr Bennett be joining us?” Jonathan asks and Barnabas looks up from where he’s lingering by the fireplace, looking towards Jonah. Jonathan is looking towards him too, they both are, plants turned towards the sun, both of them eyeing their focal point.

“Of course he will.” 

And - well. There it is. 

Jonathan has Jonah remove his shirt and his bindings so he can place his ear to his chest and listen to his heart, one eye on the stopwatch in hand, and then listen at his back for any obstruction in his breathing, giving a little hum and nudging Jonah gently towards the bed once he is satisfied.

“I think we can dispose of the rest of your clothes, now.” 

“Oh, _can_ we?” Jonah scoffs. “What is it you intend to inflict on me, Dr Fanshawe? A liniment, today, a cataplasm? A fomentation?” 

“A gag?” Barnabas suggests from where he’s leaning against the door, grinning at the sharp look Jonah sends him. “I’ll be more than glad to assist you.” 

“I’m depending upon it, Mr Bennett,” Jonathan replies absently, looking through his bag. 

“Barnabas, please.”

“Barnabas, then.” Jonathan’s lips twitch at the corners and he nods towards Jonah. “Diseases such as fevers can move in the blood and affect the runnings of the heart. I should like to be sure that all is in working order.” 

“How do you normally go about that?”

“Normally-” Jonathan looks up to meet Jonah’s eyes, something quiet and intense in his face, “I would let a little blood, time how long it takes to run, to clot.” Jonah’s hands have paused on the buttons of his trousers and he is watching Jonathan just as intently, poised like someone that might flee, that might pounce. Jonathan looks away first, a set of grim satisfaction to his lips, “but I shouldn’t like to spoil your sheets. A fitting compromise might be to test the motions of blood beneath the skin.” 

“Oh?” Barnabas smiles, falling into the role of accomplice and helpmate, crossing the room to settle on the bed, back against the headboard. “Well, then. Come here, Jonah.” 

“I suppose you two intend to be brutish, do you?” Jonah sighs, aggrieved, even as he finishes undressing and sits between Barnabas’ legs, tilting his head to let Barnabas press kisses to his neck, over the freckled slope of his shoulder. 

“Most assuredly,” Barnabas promises, trailing a hand down to rest splayed against Jonah’s stomach, keeping him steady as he sets his teeth to his shoulder, biting gently until Jonah arches with a soft, wounded little noise, head falling back to Barnabas’ shoulder. “All in the name of good health, of course,” Barnabas murmurs, wasting little time in doing just the same thing in another spot, and then another, marking Jonah’s shoulder with a few red marks that he knows will blossom into purpling bruises. “You wear these bruises so prettily, angel.” 

Jonah shivers, and Barnabas knows that it has little to do with the pain and more to do with the praise, with being told how lovely he looks like this. He grins, holding still as Jonathan approaches to thumb across the marks, pressing the flat of his nail down to the edge of one until Jonah gasps. 

“Hm. That seems satisfactory enough. You can bite him harder,” he murmurs, tone still quite cool and clinical, and Barnabas is all too eager to obey, switching his attention to Jonah’s other shoulder and this time biting until he feels the skin give under the point of his teeth, until he tastes copper against his tongue, until he hears Jonah’s breath catch and shudder out of him. He kisses the mark when he’s done, lips smeared bloody, and laughs. 

“I fear my sheets will be ruined regardless, Dr Fanshawe.” 

“Perhaps,” Jonathan agrees with a tone of mock-ruefulness. “Some patients are always more inclined to be difficult than others.”

“Difficult?” Jonah protests indignantly, but doesn’t get another word out before Jonathan hooks a thumb against his teeth, presses the flat of it to his tongue and holds his mouth open with a few soft shushing noises. 

“Quiet, Jonah. We’re working.” 

Jonah’s lip curls in a way that suggests he might bite, given the right provocation, but he holds still while Jonathan peers inside his mouth. “Mm - Barnabas, do you think you can induce a noise out of him? I’d like to see the throat is working properly, still-”

“Certainly,” Barnabas says cheerfully and bites Jonah again, this time lowering his hand to thumb gently across Jonah’s cock until he feels his hips twitch and hears Jonah’s ragged moan, Jonathan chuckling as he removes his thumb from his mouth. 

“Wonderful. There’s a good boy, Jonah.” 

Jonah works his jaw, swallows hard and seems to be summoning his words despite the tight circles Barnabas is now rubbing over his cock, the way he’s already shivering in his grip. “I suppose,” he grits out, “you intend to put up some facade of taking my temperature, now?” 

“Oh, since you _mention_ it-” Jonathan grins. “I had no idea you were such a man of medicine. Yes, that’s precisely what I intend to do. But I would prefer to do it without your interruption, so I think Barnabas had better provide you with something else with which to occupy that clever mouth of yours.” 

“ _Naturally_ ,” Jonah mutters, rolling his eyes, all sharpness. He always is, at this point, sharp and twitchy until they sand his edges smooth, until he is boneless, filled with enough lassitude to succumb to being looked after, being cared for. Barnabas nuzzles against the back of his neck and nudges him away so he can set his hands to the lacing of his shirt, glancing at Jonathan for his nod of approval before he sets to undressing properly, throwing his clothes carelessly to the side and kneeling on the bed. 

He has every intention of keeping up some semblance of clinical detachment but when Jonah settles facing him Barnabas loses his grip on the act, reaches out to draw him close and kiss him, to take solace in the steadiness of his hands, the way his eyes are bright from excitement, now, not fever. Jonah laughs against his lips, fond and mocking, presses him back against the headboard to deepen the kiss until Jonathan clears his throat, watching the two of them with a raised eyebrow. 

“If you don’t mind?” he says pointedly and Barnabas gives a sheepish grin, arms still wound close around Jonah. 

“You can’t blame me for being a little distracted, surely, just _look_ at him,” he purrs, watches the flush rising in Jonah’s cheeks. “The most gorgeous man in London. A face that deserves to be on statues, on coins, angel, I would take your beauty to be proof of the divine were you not such a sinful temptation.” He punctuates his words with more kisses to Jonah’s smiling lips, only letting up when Jonathan takes hold of Jonah’s shoulder and pulls him back forcibly, expression torn between amusement and exasperation. 

“I can see you’re going to be a hindrance rather than a help. If aiding is too much of a hardship perhaps you’d be better served just watching?” he suggests lightly and Barnabas grins, shakes his head, places his hand against his heart. 

“On my honour, dear sir, I’ll be as good as gold.” 

“See that you are.” Jonathan sets his hand between Jonah’s shoulderblades and presses down firmly, nudging and coaxing and pinching him into the position he wants - Jonah on his knees, elbows braced against the bed, hands against Barnabas’ thighs and legs spread. Barnabas leans back a little, taking in the view of him, mussed curls and sparkling eyes and pink, pink lips mouthing at the head of his cock. 

“ _Hoc tua, saeue puer, basia fragrant,_ ” he murmurs, and Jonah gives him a flat look even as Jonathan laughs, warming a bottle of oil between his palms. 

“ _Most_ fragrant, yes, but he’s hardly grudging from the looks of things,” Jonathan teases. “I didn’t take you for a poet, Barnabas.” 

“He has his moments,” Jonah mutters, twists the words in his mouth to make it sound more like an insult, softens them with a kiss to Barnabas’ thigh. “All sweet words and folly, though he only reads the basest of the Roman poets.” 

“I can’t be anything but sweet when speaking of sweetness,” Barnabas replies, lets his head fall back with a sigh when Jonah clearly decides that the only way to quiet him is to distract him and takes him into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks around him and letting out a muffled hum at the first press of Jonathan’s oiled finger against his hole. Jonathan is still dressed, still wholly put-together, and Barnabas tracks his handsome features as he twists his finger into Jonah, one and then two, slow and methodical and apparently unmoved by the increasing pitch of Jonah’s moans. 

Barnabas curls a hand at the nape of Jonah’s neck and rolls his hips up almost lazily, in no hurry to do much more than watch Jonathan prepare Jonah as he wishes. Jonathan looks up to meet his eyes and tilts his head a little as if curious, dragging a finger over Jonah’s cock and against his slit like an afterthought, like a formality. 

“I hate to interrupt, of course, but when you’re inclined, I think I’d rather have you at this end,” he says, courteous as ever, and Barnabas feels what’s almost a _giggle_ shuddering in his throat, ducks his head briefly to compose himself and smoothes Jonah’s hair back from his face. 

“You heard the good doctor. Not that you’re doing a wonderful job,” he teases, feels Jonah’s lip curl, the scarcest hint of teeth that has him shivering. “ _Jonah_. Haven’t I earned nicer treatment than that after nursing you back to health?” 

“Oh, is he being intransigent?” Jonathan tuts, returns to his bag and pulls out a gag that he buckles around Jonah’s head without ceremony once Barnabas has pulled away, pressing the thick leather bit of it against his tongue for him to bite down onto. “Much better.” 

“Is that part of your normal medical kit?” Barnabas asks incredulously, and Jonathan smiles, shakes his head. 

“Only for certain patients. Now, come here-” 

Barnabas obeys, sliding a hand over his cock to try and take the edge off the loss of Jonah’s mouth and settling at the end of the bed, letting Jonathan take his hand and pool oil into his palm, watching him press two fingers back into Jonah and then reach for Barnabas’ wrist to direct his finger alongside.

“Oh- are you sure?” Barnabas asks, blinking, not quite sure how to react to that, and Jonathan chuckles. 

“You’ve seen him take far more than three fingers and this is what has you clutching your pearls?” he teases. Which is - well, a fair enough point, but there is something awfully intimate about the slide of Barnabas’ finger against the joints of Jonathan’s, feeling the curve of one knuckle, two, the two of them pressed tightly together. Barnabas crooks his finger experimentally and Jonah whines against the gag, forehead dropping down to the mattress. 

“ _God_ ,” Barnabas whispers, and Jonathan glances at him sidelong, eyes softening just for a moment. 

“He can take far more, as well you know. One of these days perhaps I’ll help him take your hand entirely,” he suggests, and Barnabas feels his mouth go dry, imagines the fluttering of Jonah’s muscles against his hand, against his _wrist_ , shifts his finger a little to slide it against Jonathan’s and feels Jonathan press up into the touch a little (as much as either of them can press in any direction when they’re held so close to one another). 

It occurs to him that this is the first time they’ve touched beyond a handshake, beyond Jonathan’s palm against his shoulder a few nights before. He finds himself blushing, and he can _see_ Jonathan’s amusement at that too, not sure how to even begin broaching the topic in any way that won’t come across as flippant and he doesn’t want to _be_ flippant, not like this, not about this. 

He is spared by Jonathan nudging his hip gently, spurring him into action, the two of them stretching Jonah out together. He’s _soaking_ , glistening with slick and gasping, legs spread, quite shamelessly about being arched before them both - not for the first time Barnabas considers the strange camaraderie of the men caught in Jonah’s sway. “You’re so beautiful,” he says softly, listens to Jonah’s gag-muffled whine at the praise. “God, Jonah, if you only knew-”

“Oh, he knows.” Jonathan chuckles, shakes his head a little. “He knows very well indeed. I think he’s loose enough, now; I’ll leave you the choice of how you’d prefer to take him?” 

“Ah - prepared for that as well in your bag, have you?” 

“Certainly.” Sure enough, Jonathan reaches back for his bag to withdraw a harness, a bronze cock to attach to it. Barnabas watches him fiddle with the straps, blinking a little. 

“Will you, ah- don’t you want to undress?” 

“Mm? Oh. No, I don’t think so.” Sure enough, the straps go over Jonathan’s trousers and Barnabas’ brow furrows in confusion, but he’s hardly going to _press_ the matter. He sits back at the headboard, coaxing Jonah forwards to straddle his hips and frowning a bit more at the way that Jonah, flushed and wanting with his lips stretched around a gag, chin spit-slick, can still look so _knowing_. Barnabas purses his lips and drags two fingers against his folds, presses them into him to see his eyes go glazed and pleasure-heavy, to take some of that ever-present focus away from him. 

He might ask, later. He might not. Whatever is between Jonah and Jonathan is a strange dance that he feels he is not entirely welcome within and perhaps that’s for the best. 

Jonathan spreads oil along the length of the cock and splays a hand against Jonah’s chest, pulling him back against him and resting the head of it against his hole, pressing at the edge of the bitemarks Barnabas had sunk into his shoulders. 

“Ready for us both?” 

Jonah nods, breathless, and Barnabas watches his throat work as he swallows, stays quite still to let Jonathan press into him, captivated by the flutter of Jonah’s eyelashes against his cheek, the helpless moan as he is filled, the way his skin turns stark white under the clutch of Jonathan’s hand at his hip. Barnabas settles his hand against the other hip, crooks his fingers gently inside Jonah and pulls him down like that, withdrawing his hand only to replace it with the head of his cock, the three of them shifting with minute adjustments until Jonah has his head back against Jonathan’s shoulder and is full, quite full, utterly caught between them both. 

Jonathan’s glasses are misted over. Barnabas reaches up with one hand to take them, fingers trembling a little, setting them gently aside and watching how Jonathan’s eyes widen, narrow, widen again, slipping over his face, past him, through him, and then settling somewhere against Jonah’s shoulder. Jonah huffs out an impatient breath through his nose and Barnabas grins, leaning forwards to kiss his chest, to flick his tongue against one of the barbells in his nipples, catching it between his teeth and pulling until Jonah’s impatience turns to need all over again, until he clenches hard around him. 

“There’s a good boy,” Jonathan sighs, almost reverent, and cants his hips to pull out of Jonah, to push back in, Barnabas letting him set the pace and take the lead. He’s more than happy to play second fiddle to him - frankly, even after all of his apologies he thinks that perhaps he owes him that much - and he hardly needs much more than the velvet heat of Jonah around him, the reassurance of him alive and happy and content, the motion of him being rocked down onto him by Jonathan’s thrusts. 

Jonathan is - careful, yes, but not _gentle_. There is a banked tension in the curl of his fingers, the force of his thrusts, and Barnabas watches Jonah react to it, watches him press into every too-hard touch. He drinks in each part of him and lets Jonathan move them both, rolling his hips up into Jonah and touching each part of him that he can, a brush of nails against his side, a pinch to his nipple and then a few firm strokes to his cock that have Jonah shuddering apart, held safe between them both. Jonathan stills, gives another careful thrust just - apparently - to see Jonah whimper with the oversensitivity, and smiles as he pulls away and undoes the harness. His collar is rumpled, his hair in disarray, but bar those small details he’ll be quite respectable by the time he leaves. 

Barnabas lifts Jonah off him carefully, breathing out hard through his nose at the feeling of it, still hard and aching but willing to disregard that, if he must, because Jonah looks weary, slumps easily against Barnabas’ side. Barnabas has seen him take more, yes, and over many more hours, but he is only recently returned to health and he is wary of pushing him too far. Jonathan unbuckles the gag, leans over to press a kiss to Jonah’s sweat-damp temple and finishes putting away his equipment, chuckling to himself. 

“Hale and hearty again, Jonah, and I’m glad of it,” he says quietly, only then looking at Barnabas and pausing at the sight of him, still aching. Barnabas swallows, suddenly - quite incongruously - embarrassed, and he can feel Jonah’s smile against his side, the _bastard_ , knows full well that he’s enjoying every moment of this strange, sudden tension. 

Jonathan is silent, a complicated expression on his face, but after a moment he seems to come to a decision and approaches the bed, leaning down without ceremony to take Barnabas in a firm grip and stroke him. Barnabas gasps, too startled to do much but succumb to the sudden reignition of fire against his skin, arching and bucking until Jonathan tuts, flattens his free hand against his stomach to press him down to the mattress. 

“Be still,” he says softly and Barnabas does his utmost to obey, hand clenching and unclenching in the duvet; Jonathan is relentless and he won’t meet his eyes and there is something about this that is new and strange and too-hot, too-cold, utterly outside of his capacity to handle. 

“ _Jonathan_ -” he whispers and Jonathan’s expression flickers, something that’s almost exasperation on his face as he increases his pace to quite rob Barnabas of his words, thumbing just under the head of his cock and twisting his wrist in a way that leaves him helpless to do anything but hold on tight and let himself be worked up and over the edge, spilling against his belly with his toes curled tight and Jonah’s watchful eyes on his face. 

Jonathan wipes his hand clean with a handkerchief and a few fastidious movements, sweeps his eyes over the two of them just for a moment and then smiles and picks his glasses up from the bedside table. 

“Sleep well.” 

“Wait- can I not- I mean, you haven’t-” Barnabas stammers, still hazy, and Jonathan shakes his head. 

“Another time, perhaps, Barnabas. Rest, now. You’ll need your strength for Jonah, I’ve no doubt.” 

“ _Quite_ ,” Jonah murmurs, slow and self-satisfied, stretching like a cat and then tangling his legs with Barnabas’. “Good evening, Jonathan.” 

“Goodnight, Jonah.” There’s no mistaking the warmth in his tone. Barnabas keeps his arm close around Jonah and listens to the sound of footsteps on the stair again, glancing at Jonah. 

“Did I- have I offended him again?” 

“Why would you ask that?” 

“Well. He didn’t-” Barnabas waves a vague hand and Jonah laughs, catches it to press a kiss to the inside of his wrist. 

“No. He often isn’t inclined to. I assure you he enjoyed himself immensely, though; he’d not have done it if he didn’t want to. That goes for me as much as for you.” 

“I see,” Barnabas says softly. He’s lying, but it feels the right thing to say, about as right as cuddling closer to Jonah’s side and pulling the covers over them both, trailing his fingers against the bruises on his shoulders and thinking about Jonathan’s hand on his shoulder, their fingers pressed together, his hand against his cock, his eyes - so like Jonah’s - pressing upon him like a weight.

* * * 

LONDON, ENGLAND 15 April, 1824

JONATHAN FANSHAWE, MD.

_My dear Jonathan:_

The circumstances under which I write this letter are not those that I can easily explain. Suffice it to say that you will - I hope - have noted my absence from society, and unless matters change abruptly in the next few hours, I should think that unlikely to change. I wish I could tell you more about the place in which I find myself, but my life is now in the hands of one much crueler than the gods, and for all that I might regret his cruelty, I cannot betray his confidence. 

I am writing to you about Jonah, of course, with no expectation of action from your side. Should I never return, I know that you will be the safest of hands for him and, I hope, will approach him with the clear and incisive mind that I have always so admired in you. He has oft-described you as a kindred spirit, and you two share much of the same ambition, the same sharpness, the same absolute focus. It is this focus I must address, knowing that you will likely be approaching this letter with a quite understandably jaded eye. 

As his doctor, Jonathan, you will know that what is best for him is not always that which he most likes or enjoys. Bitter medicines must still be taken. Jonah’s ambition induces him to set aside all other interests to the detriment of his health and, perhaps, that of his associates. I am not asking you to distance yourself from him as I know that to be a near-impossible prospect, and one that you would likely consider risible at this juncture, but I must ask you - most humbly - that you take care of him. Even if that means controverting his wishes.

I cannot explain any further, save to say that I would not be writing this letter if I did not have the gravest of fears. My part in this is done, but yours is not, and I would not see you fall by the wayside. Take care of him - love him, as I know you do - and keep a watchful eye. I have no doubt that you will be most diligent. 

I’m sure it goes without saying, but you oughtn’t tell him about this correspondence. It may be that he knows regardless, but that is quite out of my hands. You oughtn’t volunteer the knowledge. Knowledge is something that you both strive for, but I fear Jonah knows too much about too many dark and terrible things and I am afraid, Jonathan. I am awfully afraid. 

Forgive me the cryptic nature of this letter. I owe you far better treatment than that which you have received, and I hope I can make recompense for it in this life, or the next.

Until then, I remain your humble servant, and - I hope - your affectionate friend, 

Barnabas Bennett. 

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Jay for reading through this like the angel he is.
> 
>   * The title is blatantly misquoted Aeschylus
>   * The fragment of Latin that Barnabas quotes is from Martial Liber 3 LXV, _To Diadumenus_ ; it's a very gay poem, and (loosely translated) the whole thing means something like this: _The perfume, which is exhaled by the apple bitten by a young damsel; by the zephyr that passes over the saffron-fields of Corycia; by the vine, when it flowers white with its first clusters; by grass just cropped by the sheep; by the myrtle; by the Arabian spice-gatherer; by amber rubbed with the hand; by the fire pale with eastern frankincense; by the turf lightly sprinkled with summer showers; by the chaplet resting loosely on locks dripping with nard: all this fragrance, cruel Diadumenus, is combined in your kisses. What would it not be, were you to grant them without grudging?_
>   * I've taken absolute license with Georgian medical practices because I didn't want to write Jonah being forced into a medicinal bath and having cold water poured onto his head; there is all but zero medical accuracy contained in this fic. No leeches, either! 
> [Find me on tumblr](https://ajcrawly.tumblr.com) and talk to me about Jonah Magnus and his circle of regency bastards! Comments & kudos soothe my itching soul.



End file.
